Part Six: Politics of Freedom
Outside a cold wind had whipped up, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could hear bells ringing, another sound he hadn't heard before and needed to catalogue. He backtracked slowly through thicker and thicker crowds, making his way to the State House.
"It's King Street!" someone was saying.
"A fire?"
"I don't know. We need to go see if they need help."
"Who stands in Parliament for Boston? For New York? For Virginia? No one! But Old Sarum is represented. And Newport and Newtown. Seaford and Saltash. The list goes on. Rotten boroughs one and all. What is to become of the rights of Englishmen? Are we not entitled to have a say in our governance? Who are they to silence our voices? To insist we be represented by strangers?"
"Have you forgotten the Stamp Act and how we responded? We spoke up! We resisted! So they stood down! We were heard and it was repealed! But now... Now too many are silent."
"Or worse - they excuse it! The taxes are not so high, they say. The money is put to good use, they say. Fie, I say! Fie we should all say! Though the taxes may be small, they were enacted and enforced without our consent. As to their use? They pay governors and judges! And if Britain pays them, it's Britain whom they are beholden, not us! Do none see the danger here?"
"It's not a fire. It's a mob."
"The regulars, they've got loaded muskets. Hell's about to rain down!"
The mood of the people was strange, angry, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not understand why. He returned to the wagon and the massive brick and white building called the State House and looked to the old man.
"What happened?" he asked.
Achilles was already off the wagon and moving down the street. "That's what we're going to find out," he replied. "Follow me."
People were running down the streets at different clips; Achilles had no hope of matching that pace but limped along with adequate speed. Ratonhnhaké:ton was nearly vibrating with confusion. The cluster of bodies began to press against each other, and Ratonhnhaké:ton began to make out individual comments.
"Shoot!"
"Come on, ya lobsterback! Fire! Fire!"
Beyond the crowd was another brick and white trimmed building, a series of men in bright red coats holding muskets. He looked to Achilles, and all he said was, "British soldiers; men trained to fight battles. They've been here for two years, keeping the peace."
"Then why is everyone shouting?"
"That boy who was killed last week in the Gazette? The alleged killer was a customs employee, and that," he gestured with his cane, "is the Customs House. I suspect the crowds have been looking for a target for days, and now we have this. Look," he added.
Through the throngs of people, Ratonhnhaké:ton saw a face he had seen in the paintings in the root cellar: the tricorn had, the rich cape, the stone blue. This was the head of the atenenyarhu, the Templars. It was not Charles Lee, but rather the man labeled as Grandmaster. He was speaking to a man in a grey goat. Was it really...?
"Is that..." he took a breath, too many emotions beginning to fuel him he could not process it all. "... my father?" He had never imagined actually meeting him; he knew so little about him, knew only that he had hurt his ista in some way. Now he knew that he was the leader of the atenenyarhu, commanded the Stone Coat Charles Lee, was responsible for his mother's death. He... he looked like Ratonhnhaké:ton, same nose and chin. His skin was pale, like Ratonhnhaké:ton's. This was not how he expected to see him, he had never expected to see him, and to see him across the way filled with men shouting and cursing... This was not how it was supposed to be, but Ratonhnhaké:ton had no idea what he had even expected.
"Yes," Achilles was saying, "Which means trouble is sure to follow. I need you to tail his accomplice; this crowd is a powder keg – we can't allow them to light the fuse."
"But..." Ratonhnhaké:ton started to say, uncertain what would come out of his mouth but needing to say something.
"But nothing!" the Old Man hissed. "Do as I say and go."
Ratonhnhaké:ton did so. The grey coat ducked into an ally and Ratonhnhaké:ton followed.
"I say again: disperse!" one of the men in red coats said, his clothes were slightly different from the others, marking him as a leader. "Congregating in this manner is forbidden!"
"We're not going anywhere, bug!"
"Oi! Why don't you go back to England?!"
"No good can come of this chaos!" said the leader of the redcoats. "Return to your homes and all will be forgiven!"
"Never!"
"Not until you've answered for your crimes!"
"You're right cowards, pointing guns at unarmed folk! Why don't you shoot and see what happens!"
"You don't scare us!"
"We ain't afraid!"
The voices faded into general shouts of displeasure, and slowly they faded all together as Ratonhnhaké:ton tuned them out, his focus narrowing to just the grey coat, moving shiftily down an alley. A thrill shuddered down Ratonhnhaké:ton's back; he had only been training for five, six months. He was not nearly ready to do something like this. What did the old man expect him to do? What did Ratonhnhaké:ton expect to do? He had no idea what to expect from this venture, the nervous energy made him shake with anticipation. Of what, he could not say.
The grey coat turned from the alley and ducked between two houses. Beyond were some people, trying to get away from the crowds, talking about what was going on and what should be done. The grey coat climbed a ladder, and after a moment Ratonhnhaké:ton did the same, the seams of his borrowed coat stretching to the point of ripping as he made his way to the stiff slant of the shingled roof. Footprints were in the snow and Ratonhnhaké:ton's heart thumped loudly in his chest as he followed it, seeing the grey coat take aim with a musket. Where was he going to fire?
… Wait, he was going to fire? Into this crowd?
Ratonhnhaké:ton's eagle spirit shrieked violently, awakening in his mind and showing him just what it was that Achilles saw: none of the citizens were armed, angry though they were, but the redcoats had muskets and therefore the power to kill the angry people that were harassing them. Ratonhnhaké:ton's father's plan, Haytham Kenway's plan, was to goad the redcoats into firing into the crowd. But... Why? What was to be gained by that?
No, that question was not important.
Haytham Kenway had ordered this man to kill someone, and that had to be stopped. Ratonhnhaké:ton would not allow an atenenyarhu to eat someone, not if he could stop it.
Heart pounding, breath heavy, nerves on fire from fear, he ran on silent feet to the grey – no, the Stone Coat and grabbed him, one hand on the shoulder and the other around the musket and yanked him back, shoving him into the roof and landing on him as the evil spirit began to slide in the snow. Ratonhnhaké:ton wrestled for grip briefly before getting the musket and tossing it over the edge of the roof.
That... that was easy.
A small, surprised smile bled onto his face as he realized his success. He did it! He did it! The training had paid off! He could do this!
He leaned forward, face once more controlled, and pulled out his tamahac, pressing it to the grey coat's neck. "Your plot has ended," he said.
The grey coat smiled. "Not quite," he replied, and with an unexpected shove Ratonhnhaké:ton was sliding along the snowy precipice of the roof, scrambling for purchase as the man ran back the way he'd come. Finally stopping his fall, Ratonhnhaké:ton looked out over the crowd, his eagle still shrieking in his mind, and his eyes snapped to another man, another grey coat, in the crowed packing snow around a rock before throwing it. In horror, Ratonhnhaké:ton looked back to the soldiers, where the leader was talking to a man with a cudgel.
"Are the muskets loaded?"
"They are, sir, but no one will fire unless I order it; and I assure you I have no intention of ordering it."
The rock-laden snowball impacted on one of the redcoats head, knocking him into the snow to the riotous laugh of the crowd. The private scrambled to his feet, picking up his musket; his face was red with fury.
"Damn you, fire!" the soldier said, and lifted his musket to fire.
In horror, silence descended on Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears as the world seemed to still; the man speaking to the leader raised his cudgel to swing at the irate redcoat, striking at the hands to make the private drop his weapon before turning to the leader, and suddenly the soldiers had both an order and the desire to protect their leader.
An uneven volley was fired into the crowd, and soon everyone was running, shouting, cursing. Ratonhnhaké:ton leaned over the edge of the roof, seeing three bodies and blood in the snow, others being dragged away in a panic, some limping away. Blood was everywhere.
He... he had failed.
Haytham Kenway was nowhere to be seen.
He had failed.
The atenenyarhu who had thrown the rock was gone, as was the shooter Ratonhnhaké:ton had thought he stopped.
He had failed.
The streets descended to chaos after that. Ratonhnhaké:ton was swept away with the crowds almost as soon as he touched down, people crying and cursing, some covered with blood and shouting for a doctor, and others trying to go back to the custom house, trying to learn what had happened.
"Did they order it? Did they truly order to fire on unarmed civilians?"
"How can they fire on us? What right did they have?"
"They must be hung for this!"
"Where are they? They need to be arrested!"
"Somebody get the governor!"
"Like he'll do anything!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton searched for Achilles, feeling acutely alone in an angry crowd that he did not understand. The sense of breathless wonder and amazement was swept away with fear; raw, poorly controlled fear as he realized he was alone in a city he did not know or understand and had no idea how to go home because his home was in a valley days and days away and he could not return until the Stone Coats were defeated and he had failed to do so and now there was blood on his hands for his failure and where was Achilles he needed to find Achilles but would the old man even talk to him after this would he even train him after this catastrophic failure? What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do?
Ratonhnhaké:ton ran through the streets with the others until he found a barrel and a corner, crouching down and hiding, breathing in ragged pants, trying to practice stillness, trying to bring himself under control, trying to ask the eagle of his spirit what he had to do next. The chill of the snow was invisible to him, as was the sharp wind of the evening, all he could focus on was his own mind and trying to bring it back to a semblance of thought before the anxiety in his chest threatened to break him into little pieces.
"Connor? Connor! Connor Davenport, apprentice of Achilles Davenport!"
Achilles?
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, startled to hear the old man's name, and shakily go to his feet. If the person calling out that name knew Achilles, perhaps he knew where the old man was.
A man in a blue coat, sagged features, saw Ratonhnhaké:ton approach. "Are you Connor? Connor Davenport, apprentice of Achilles?"
Connor? Oh!
"Yes," he said softly. Still shaking.
"Good. Come with me if you want to live through the night. God save us they were ordered to fire on unarmed civilians, who knows what they'll do next. Come with me, boy!"
Numbly, Ratonhnhaké:ton followed, grateful to be in the presence of a man who seemed to be concerned about his safety. "Where is Achilles?" he asked. "And what is your name?"
"Oh, do forgive me," the man said. "Formalities are so often forgotten in the face of brutal and unwarranted violence. I'm Samuel Adams, Boston assemblyman, call me Sam."
Assemblyman? Ratonhnhaké:ton would ask later. For almost an hour he followed the man named Sam, flitting from one place to the next, asking if people had heard what had happened, asking for details from those who did, asking questions that mostly whistled right over Ratonhnhaké:ton's head; as the evening pressed on he began to wonder when this man, Sam, would take him to Achilles, but the fervor in which the man walked from person to person, seemingly tireless as evening waned to night, made him hesitant to ask. At last, however, they stopped at a shop that had Adams' name on it, and Ratonhnhaké:ton stood in a corner, not wanting to interrupt yet another conversation but having nowhere else to go.
"Cousin!" Sam said.
"Sam," another man, clearly family, said.
"Do you know what's happened?"
"I heard the church bells, I thought there was a fire. There was blood in the snow!"
"British regulars fired into a crowd, cousin; it's unspeakable! I've heard there's four dead, more wounded. The presses will be afire about this; we need to make sure the right message get to London: Captain Thomas Preston of His Majesty's Twenty-Ninth Regiment orders indiscriminate fire onto an innocent group of young boys."
Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. That was not what happened. "It was not the leader who gave the order," he said softly.
Both men turned, Sam's cousin noticing Ratonhnhaké:ton for the first time. "What?" he asked.
"It was not the leader," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "The leader was the one talking to the man, yes? It was the one that fell that gave the order. And they were not all young boys; there was shouting and-"
"I know all that," Sam said, adjusting his blue coat. "But the fact remains those regulars fired into the crowd when they were supposed to be here to keep the peace. Keep the peace! For two years they've been nothing but a source of inflammation! It was only a matter of time before something like this happened and now that it has-"
"Sam," his cousin said, eyes narrow. "Did you... arrange this?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up, startled at the accusation. Sam's cousin was standing at his desk, his face blocked off and cool, leaning back from Sam's fervor. Sam was also startled, his form half frozen in gesticulation.
"I most certainly did not!" Sam hissed, the outburst surprising everyone.
"Sam..."
"No, John, I know," he said, the energy draining out of him. He sank into a chair. "I know how I look to others. I know the kind of man I am; I'm not the innocent youth I was. None of us are. I know how deeply you value the law John, in truth I can think of no one who values it more: the law of God, the law of the king, and the law of the colony. Whether you believe it or not, I believe in the law, too. I've read our charter backwards and forwards, I've done everything in my power to try and change how things are done in Parliament. You've seen the petitions, the organizations, the letters."
"Your pamphlets."
"Cousin, what else am I supposed to do?" Sam asked, wary. "I believed in reforms, I believed there was a path through all of this, but the minute those soldiers landed I realized the truth. England doesn't see us as equal participants in their empire, they don't even see us as equal citizens. There is a hierarchy in this empire: and people born and raised in England are at the top of the chain. Then come we colonists, then the foreigners like the Dutch and the Germans, then the Indians, and then the slaves, and so on down the line until everyone is categorized according to their worth. I've tried, we've tried, to change that. The protests for the Stamp Act got out of hand, but we did well with the Townshed Acts, we've proven we can make our voices heard, and I thought that if we were just loud enough..."
"And now?" the cousin, John asked.
Sam held his head in his hands. "There's no hope," he said softly, quietly. He looked up, his eyes fiery again. "England will never see us as anything but second class citizens, just like the Irish and the Welsh and the Scots. They see us a little more than children, to be spanked when we act up and scolded when we actually catch their attention. We're supposed to be seen and not heard, are supposed to be grateful as they levy tax after tax and act after tax and act without our consent. Do you know what the great irony is? If we colonies had been allowed to debate the issue, debate the taxes and litigate like we were supposed to, if we had been allowed to do that we probably would have accepted the taxes. But they didn't do that. They just levy what they want, wave their hands and expect us to comply. And the worst of it, the worst of it, is that we are getting used to the abuses. The taxes aren't all that much, we still buy the tea, the soldiers have been here for two years, and we've grown accustomed to them being here, consider it normal. I will do anything, anything in my power to remind the people that normal life for them is a life of abuse."
The words at last ran out, Sam sagged back into the chair. The pause hung over the air, lingering, before he took another breath. "I've never been a good man, John, I know that. But you give me far too much credit to think I'm somehow in charge of mobs. No, John, this is a disaster. England could take this as an excuse and yank those soldiers back to England for trial, they might not trust us to follow the law. That's why I'm here. The trial needs to be held here, in the colonies; we need to show England that they can fire into our citizens – a treasonous act if it happened in London – and we will still adhere to the law. John, I can think of no other man to represent these soldiers in the trial but you."
John blinked, slowly, and Ratonhnhaké:ton felt something churning in the air.
"I still don't agree with you," John said. "I don't agree with your methods. But, like you said, I adhere to the law. I've already had someone to ask that I represent them. I've agreed."
"I see. Thank you, John."
"Don't thank me, Sam, I'm doing my job."
"As you wish, Cousin." Sam stood, adjusting his blue coat and moving to the door. He paused, turning back. "Thank you," he said softly, before his eyes flicked to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Come on, Connor. There's still much work to do."
Ratonhnhaké:-Connor gave one last look to the cousin, John Adams, and followed Sam back out into the cold. They walked in silence for a time, Sam lost in his own thoughts and Ra—Connor wondering what had just happened. He wished Achilles was here, the man had a way of sensing his questions and answering them before he even opened his mouth. Why had Sam not taken the teen to him yet?
Their next stop was to a building that housed a contraption Ratonhnhaké:-Connor had never seen before and could not guess. Sam spoke with the man who operated it, and after an hour's worth of work a sheet of paper came out, and Sam handed it over to Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Massacre on King Street!
Doubtless our readers know that on the evening of Monday last, a squadron of soldiers formed before the Custom House fired into a crowd of citizens, killing four and wounding many. Our readers will expect a circumstantial account of the tragic affair; but we hope they will excuse our being particularly cautious as we should be, had we not seen that the town was intending an enquiry and full representation thereof. However, some few facts appear to be established.
Following upon an altercation between some harmless lads of the town and a single posted guard at the Custom House, an increasing number of citizens came to that place with heat shouted down the guard. In like manner, a large group of citizens gathered in King Street. Capt. Thomas Preston perceived from the Main Guard House his soldier in distress and left the Main Guard with a party of men with charged bayonets. The soldiers came, pushing their bayonets, crying, make way! They took place by the Custom House by brutal force, and, continuing to push to drive people off pricked some in several places, on which they were clamorous and, it is said, threw snow balls and, perhaps, portions of ice. The crowd tried to reason with the soldiers, shouting "You dare not fire!" On this, and more snowballs coming, someone cried out, "Damn you, fire!" One soldier then fired, and a townsman with a cudgel struck him over the hands with such force that he dropped his firelock, and, rushing forward, aimed a blow at the Captain's head which grazed his hat and fell pretty heavy upon his arm. With such a minor encounter the soldiers continued the fire successively till seven or eight or, as some say, eleven guns were discharged. The Captain supported the decision, repeating the order to fire at unarmed civilians in one bloody massacre.
By this fatal maneuver three men were laid dead on the spot and two more struggling for life; but what showed a degree of cruelty unknown to British troops, at least since the house of Hanover had directed their operation, was an attempt to fire upon or push with their bayonets the persons who undertook to remove the slain and wounded!
The dead are -
Mr. Samuel Gray, killed on the spot, the ball entering his head and beating off large portion of his skull.
A mulatto man named Crispus Attucks, also killed instantly, two balls entering his breast, one of them in special goring the right lobe of the lungs and a great part of the liver most horribly.
Mr. James Caldwell, mate of Capt. Morton's vessel, in like manner killed by two balls entering his back.
Mr. Samuel Maverick, a promising youth of seventeen years of age, son of the widow Maverick, and an apprentice to Mr. Greenwood, ivory-turner; a ball went through his belly and was cut out at his back. He died the next morning.
Mr. Patrick Carr, about thirty years of age, who worked with Mr. Field, leather breeches-maker in Queen Street, wounded, a ball entered near his hip and went out at his side. Apprehended he will die.
And several others requiring surgery, suffering loss of blood, shattered bones and lodged musket-balls.
Governor Hutchinson has exerted himself in an effort to quell the town. He has ordered the arrest of said Captain Preston as well as the soldiers involved until such time as an investigation and general ordering of the facts can be made.
"So," Sam said suddenly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Now you've had a chance to see how it all works. Untoward actions will upset the citizens and inevitably lead to problems. After the problems, it is a race to see which side gets the people's eye first. What do you think?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up after reading the pamphlet. "This feels wrong. Why not just speak to someone and explain what happened?"
"You can't be serious?" Sam asked, incredulous.
"You seek to counter one lie with another. Words on paper instantly taken as truth. And all of it without question. Is it not, then, more responsible to print only the truth?"
Fire burned in Sam's eyes. "They loosed this beast! Or have you forgotten?"
"There must be another way. Something more honest."
Sam was angry now. "Well, when you find it, let me know. But until then, we sculpt with the clay we have!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton, Connor, had already seen how loud the man could get when confronted with a voice that disagreed with him, even his own cousin. He was quick to be conciliatory. "My apologies," he said. "I do not mean to sound ungrateful. You have kept me safe through this night."
"Quite alright," Sam said after a breath. "I was much the same at your age. You'll grow out of it in time."
"And if I do not?" Ra—Connor asked, disliking the idea of growing out of being honest. "If I refuse?"
"Then you'll likely wind up dead."
The thought stayed with Connor all through the rest of the night, until at last Sam stopped at a nondescript house. "There's to be a meeting at Faneuil Hall, Governor Hutchinson is likely to be there. I've dragged you about enough; you'll rest here with Elizabeth and Surry. I should be home some time this afternoon, and I intend to sleep like the dead after that. We'll talk tomorrow."
Elizabeth, Ratonhnhaké:ton learned, was Sam's wife, and Surry was a woman of Achilles' skin tone. Little was said, Raton—Connor had been up for over twenty-four grueling hours, and had been dragged around for the last five; it was dawn and the women were only just waking up. Sam whispered a few words to his wife before leaving, and Ratonhnhaké:ton collapsed into a bed and knew little else after that.
He awoke in the late morning, Surry serving him a light breakfast, and he quietly thanks her for the favor.
"No need for thanks," she said gently. "I'm the servant of the house; it's my job."
"I do not know that word, servant."
"It means I earn my pay by keeping the Adams house."
"One can earn a living that way?" Ratonhnhaké:ton – no, Connor, he had to get used to that – asked.
Surry's smile saddened. "Not everyone," she said. "But I'm grateful to the Adams's for what they've done."
Ratonhnhaké:-Connor did not understand, and he asked at lunch what Surry meant.
Elizabeth smiled. "I see what Sam meant about you being naive," she said, not unkindly. "You are new to the colonies?"
"... Yes."
"Have you heard the word slavery before?"
He shook his head.
And that began his learning of the dark truths of the colonies. The veiled comments from the Old Man now made sense, and he understood why it was better to be thought a Spaniard instead of a native: natives were savages and slaves were... slaves. The concept was utterly foreign to Ratonhnhaké:ton, he spent much of the afternoon pressing and pressing on what it meant, asking questions that proved to be uncomfortable for both women, but they answered softly and as thoroughly as they could, until Ratonhnhaké:ton was so horrified that he simply disappeared to his room, looking out through his window to the busy streets with new eyes, realizing that skin color was as valued a commodity as land or children. How could the colonists measure everything by coin? Why was money so overwhelmingly powerful? He had no answers, and he wished Achilles was there to explain it all. Anxiety pulled at his chest, and he kept to his room for the rest of the day, having a restless sleep that night.
The next day, March 8th was the funeral for the four dead victims; everyone showed up, including Connor and Sam Adams. The young teen looked at the coffins and offered silent apologies for his failure. Many speeches, called eulogies, were given, the bereaved were offered condolences, and many, many, people asked Sam what was to be done.
"I cannot emphasize enough the danger this poses," Sam said. "If the trial isn't fair, if it isn't held here in the colonies, then our freedom as we know it is doomed. I've been told my cousin John Adams is going to defend him."
"His loyalties have been bought then!"
"No, he's doing his sacred duty. Imagine what would happen if a lopsided trial occurred here," Sam corrected. "No, the trial needs to be fair, we as colonists show that we will adhere to the law even when the British themselves don't uphold to it. Think of the message that will send to England, to the other colonies, to all of Europe. We must show them that we are a rational, law-abiding people, it enhances our message that we are concerned for the different acts and legislation thrown at us because we are concerned from a legal perspective. If we ever degrade ourselves to a mindless mob then we are feeding into the perception that we are little more than children who need a firm hand. The last thing we want is another punishment from Parliament."
"But-"
"No buts, it doesn't matter that the soldiers fired first, we have to maintain our image. We have to appear honorable and right, or else we'll get nowhere."
"But we'll never get anywhere if they keep allowing abuses like this."
"No, we have to wait. The people are angry now, that's good, we have to make sure they remember that, it needs to stick in their brains, burrow and dig until the next right is stripped away – and it will be stripped away, that I can guarantee. And they will remember. The weight of what England is doing will eventually break the people, and we have to wait until then."
Ratonhnhaké:ton, Connor, did not understand everything – he was still waiting for Achilles to arrive and take him back, and it wasn't until the next day that he and Sam had an opportunity to talk.
"Achilles said you were his new apprentice," Sam said, taking off the object on his nose, glasses, and rubbing his eyes. "We've been writing letters to each other for years, since '64. He said you needed an education in colonial politics, and he suggested I might be the man for the job. I confess I'm slightly surprised, he always struck me as a moderate, not a radical like me – and yes, I'm acutely aware that I'm a radical these days – and I don't know how good a teacher I am, but I'd be happy to help him in whatever way I can."
And, for the next week, Connor received a new form of education. He learned that the colonies were unique in that they were separated from the English empire by an entire ocean; it took upwards of three months for word to go back and forth – sometimes more depending on the weather. Each of the thirteen colonies had a charter, some of which predated the current Parliament, and that each charter gave a basic explanation of government. Some charters had been given up – indeed all but Massachusetts' charter – for royal governorship. From the charter, for example, it was known that colonies could elect their own bodies to govern themselves; colonies elected regional governors that lead the governments; it was also in the charter that the colonies could tax themselves for revenue. All of those words were foreign to Ratonhnhaké:ton, Connor, and Sam laughed genially before explaining: taxes were small additions to the price of goods and trade, and those additions were collected into a pile that was used to pay the salaries of the elected officials and other parts of government. Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly equated the elected officials to roiá:ner, clan chief, only instead of oiá:ner deciding who would be chief, the entire community of the tribe did.
He did not, however, understand a roiá:ner being paid for doing his duty. Sam had to explain that all items in the colonies were bought and traded for. Cities like Boston were so large that it was not necessary for all men to be hunters and all women to be planters, men could specialize in specific tasks, such as assemblymen, or lawyers, or printers. Such people could not trade for their food and comforts because their jobs did not produce something that could be held in one's hands. Instead, they were paid for their services and used the money to acquire what they needed to live. Society as large as the British Empire was necessarily complex. "It is much like your Iroquois nation," Sam said. "I don't pretend to know the details, but you send your chiefs to debate issues and create laws that govern your people, if they specialized in that, then they would not hunt for their own food."
"Then we would share it," Connor replied.
"Perhaps you would, but some men here are not so generous with their wares."
Then came the complexities that had occurred in recent years. Six years ago in 1764, the Sugar Act was passed, an extra tax on colonial sugar. It wouldn't have mattered much, except the decision was made without colonial consent, since the colonies had no representative in Parliament; only the colonial governments themselves could tax themselves. The next year was the Stamp Act, a tax on all printed goods, hitting colonist in almost all facets of their lives. The colonies were deeply bothered that they were shelling out this extra money – that they had no say in – and the effect it might have on coin that was held onto so dearly. The colonies, in reaction, had passed a set of resolves agreeing that the tax was bad for British economy. Boston had reacted particularly badly to the act; they hanged the stamp distributor and had wrecked the then-lieutenant governor Hutchinson's house, riots were everywhere. Sam explained that he organized legal methods of resistance: boycotts, petitions, protests, but that anger in such masses often dissolved to mobs. On reflection, it put the colonies in a bad light that they were never able to get out from under. Sam had been elected to the Boston assembly that year.
The Stamp Act went into effect but was eventually repealed the next year, proving that the voices of the massed colonies could create an effect in England. But two years later in 1767, Lord Townshed passed a series of taxation laws meant to milk the colony for money: taxes on imported good and the creation of a British appointed customs agency to enforce the taxes, and most damning of all: the governors and judges were to be paid independent of colonial control. Sam had organized a colony wide boycott of British goods, the idea being that the power of the purse would push for repeal, but people enjoyed their British goods and it never came into full affect. The Massachusetts House sent a letter to King George begging help, and Sam tried to get a petition sent as well, the Massachusetts Circular Letter, but the colonial governors were told that their very assemblies would be dissolved if they signed onto the petition, and Massachusetts was told specifically to rescind the letter.
"We were doing our jobs as lawful members of the British empire," Sam explained, "and in return our very governments were threatened to be dissolved. That was perhaps the first time I began to realize there were deeper problems in London."
The Customs Board was unable to enforce the trade regulations because of the various demonstrations and acts done by Sam and his associates, and they asked the military for aid. The warships arrived in May of '68. The ships tried to impress local ships; they tried to take John Hancock's ship (another name in a long slew that Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know...) and the following riot lasted for days. The Customs people retreated to Castle William, an island in the harbor for safety, and the king sent four regiments to occupy Boston and keep the peace. Massachusetts assembly decided to not rescind the Circular Letter in light of the events because they had the right to petition. On top of that Sam circulated a new petition to remove Governor Hutchinson. The governor, in response, summarily dissolved the legislature. The legislature met in spite of that, and over one hundred towns had joined in to try and figure out what to do. They issued a letter to explain that Boston wasn't lawless, the soldiers weren't necessary, and begged Hutchinson not to go against the natural, constitutional, and charter right of the people.
"And then the soldiers arrived," Sam said, leaning back in his chair. "That was two years ago. I've been doing everything I can to reverse the damage ever since. We got half the force to leave last year, but it was only a matter of time before there was blood." He rubbed his face. "There's still a part of me that thinks, 'If we just send one more petition, if we send one more letter of resolves, if we tried to explain the charter just once more, then all of this can be fixed.'" He sighed, rubbing his face again. "Things have been slowly degrading for six years; I'm not sure there isn't a solution that involves blood. I had hoped not, but..."
"I am sorry you are so troubled," Conner said softly. He could see why Achilles had asked this man, Sam to explain colonial politics to him. Pushing fifty, he burned with passion for the topics he discussed, he was excited to explain and answer every question. He assumed Ratonhnhaké:ton knew many things, and when he learned he didn't he had the patience to backtrack and try again. Sam had a deep belief in the people and the right for the people to govern themselves, to argue and issue over and over until a solution was reached – something that Ratonhnhaké:ton as a Haudenosaunee agreed to with every fiber of his being. Conner respected this man, enjoyed his energy and fervor.
But he could not understand why Achilles had just left him in the middle of the massacre.
By the time the city had quieted (slightly), Ratonhnhaké:ton felt as though he had a year's worth of learning under his belt, and no small amount of resentment for when he finally returned to the homestead.
The supplies that had been ordered were ready, and Connor went tentatively aboard the ship that carried them and set sail for a place called Cape Ann, which in fact was where the Davenport homestead was situated. The three day wagon journey was completed in a morning, and Ratonhnhaké:ton was forced to explain that the, "bloated whale of a ship's corpse!" had been in the bay since he had arrived, and no, he had no idea where it had come from, whose it was, or anything whatsoever to do with it. The captain grumbled loudly that there was no proper pier, and as they finally weighed anchor and began unloading, Ratonhnhaké:ton disembarked and all but ran up the hill to the homestead.
Sam had been an excellent teacher, but there had been one underlying thought in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind: where was Achilles? When he burst into the front door of the homestead, he found the old man in his room, sitting at his desk, acting as if everything was fine.
"Welcome back," the Old Man said without so much as even looking up.
Anger burst in Connor's mind. "You left me in Boston!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, his voice louder than he wanted. "The crowd was so large and you gave me such an important responsibility and you just left me!"
The old man looked up, eyes utterly unimpressed. "Yes," he said, "I did leave you. The training we've done here is all well and good, but experience is a better teacher by far. I had given you just enough information to get the supplies, and I wanted to see if you could survive the city. Instead an opportunity of a different kind presented itself, and we would have been fools to miss that chance. I read the papers. I take it you failed?"
The question brought up all his feelings from that night: his shame, his frustration, his fear of what Achilles would say. Energy seeped out of him, and he looked down at his hands, crumbling them together.
"I did stop the man you sent me after," he said softly, "But there was another."
"There always is."
"... What of my father?" he asked.
Achilles shook his head. "Into the wind, I'm afraid."
Gone? Just like that? After creating a massacre? Four people were dead! Another nearly so, and many others injured! His father... he could not just be gone. "We have to find him," Connor said, anxiety in his chest again. His father was the leader of the Templars, the atenenyarhu, they would eat the world whole – his village and everyone else; Haytham had been right there, and Ratonhnhaké:ton had not managed to stop him.
"And we will," the old man assured. "After the house has been repaired."
After? After?
"But he is out there plotting who knows what!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, voice loud again. Anxiety burned into impatience. If Haytham Kenway could so callously arrange a massacre in Boston as he had in Kanatahséton, then this menace needed to be stopped immediately, before it was too late!
Achilles was still unimpressed. He leveled a flat, uncaring stare up at the young teen.
"And what would you do when you found him?" the old man asked. "If you found him? You're a boy with a few months of training. He's a man full grown who has spent decades honing his skills. You've proven you can survive a colonial city, and even do what's necessary when times are pressed, but the wealth of experience between you and he is staggering. More still, he has an entire network of associates, from Charles Lee to John Pitcairn to couriers and bankers and who knows who else. You only have yourself. Explain to me how any of those facts end with a positive outcome for you?"
Connor could say nothing, pacing about the dining room, impatient and anxious and pressed, but understanding the Old Man's point. Frustrated, all he could do was look helplessly at the dark skinned man.
Achilles sighed. "If you're going to stand a chance against the Templars," he said, "you're going to need these."
Sliding a simple box with the assassin arrowhead embossed into the wood, Achilles looked away as Ratonhnhaké:ton took it. Opening it, he blinked, realizing what he was looking at. This was the weapon that Achilles spoke of so often, over and over, the main weapon of the Assassin: the hidden blade. It was an honor to receive it, to be considered worthy of it. A small, goofy grin of excited accomplishment began to bleed onto his face, and he glanced at Achilles.
"Go on," the old man said. "Before I change my mind."
Ratonhnhaké:ton took a minute to ascertain how to put them on. The rings looped around his fingers were a new sensation, he had never worn metal in such a way before. It took another minute to learn how to maneuver his wrists to flick the blades out and then back into their sheathes. He saw immediately why these were an assassin's tools, they could be completely hidden under the sleeve of any shirt or coat, and their trigger and release were nearly silent for such a silent profession as hunting people. These would also be good on the hunt, skinning animals with these would be simpler. Already his mind was creating half a dozen ways to use these practically.
He felt honored, special, to receive them. No matter how disaffected Achilles seemed to be, no matter how indifferent, the old man thought Ratonhnhaké:ton was strong enough, skilled enough, to use these. He was one step closer to completing his training, and knowing that quelled his impatience, his anxiety. He could breathe easier now.
"Niá:wen," he said softly.
Achilles opened his mouth to say something but it was interrupted.
"Hey!" was a muffled cry. Both Achilles and Ratonhnhaké:ton turned to look out from the study, to see one of the strange-sounding men from down by the river pounding on the glass and cupping his hands by his eyes to peer inside. "Help!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton rushed to the front door, opening it.
"Hurry!" the man said, "Sir, please! Help! He's going to die!"
"Who?" Connor asked, stepping forward already.
"There's no time! Please, come!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't hesitate. Leaving the door behind him open, as he ran forward.
The strange-sounding man huffed as he led Connor down the hill toward the river. "He fell in and is caught in some branches! I can't reach him!"
While Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't know who the "he" was, he understood the danger. "In the river?"
"Yes!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton started to strip off his deerskin shirt. March was bringing in warmer weather, and the ice on the river was breaking up. While the days were still cold, hard work would get one sweating under heavy layers, the river would still be frigid. Fabric or leathers would just prolong the cold. Connor shivered once his bare skin was bitten by the wind, but that did not matter. Safety once they were out of the water did.
"Damn it!" the man shouted. "The log must have gotten loose! Down there! He's passed under the bridge!"
The log was stuck just under the bridge, a man clinging to it desperately. "Help!" he called out, no doubt having heard the shouts approaching. "Please! Someone help!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton and the other man were heading to the bridge when a chunk of ice floated by, knocking the log and dislodging it, both floating further down with the currents starting to get swifter.
"No!"
But Connor heard nothing else as he dove right into the water, the shock of it leaving him breathless for a moment. He surfaced, pushing his hair out of his eyes and vaguely thinking that he'd needed to start pulling his hair back. The log was ahead, and the man clinging to it didn't see him.
"I am coming!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted, surging forward with powerful strokes learned from when he and his friends had went swimming in the lake near their village. The currents were swift, but not strong, the spring had not started to melt the snow into the rivers yet, and winter still held firm.
The man on the log turned his head and nearly lost his balance, the log rolling under him. Scrambling for purchase, the man was completely dunked into the cold water, before surfacing again, this time farther back from the log, having completely lost his grip. Ratonhnhaké:ton surged forward, the cold dragging at his limbs as he finally reached the man.
"I c-c-can't move..." the man was shivering and heavily scarred with a thick red beard, and Connor wrapped a heavy arm around the man's torso.
"Come," he said calmly, "we will go to shore."
The scarred man tried to help, but was too cold to get his limbs to work properly. Ratonhnhaké:ton himself was starting to shiver with the cold as he kept swimming for shore. The other man with the longer beard that bore a streak of gray had somehow kept pace with them along the shore and was already at the edge, waving them in.
Both Ratonhnhaké:ton and the scarred man were gasping as they got to the shore, the breeze of the day slicing through both of them. "W-w-we need to remove our clothes," Connor said, already reaching for his moccasins and leggings. "They will make us die."
"I don't under—"
"Hurry!"
The man with the gray streaked beard pulled out a knife and started cutting the scarred man's shirt. "We must dry off and get to a fire, quickly."
"The manor on the hill is closer," the man with the streaked beard said, hefting the scarred man's arm over his shoulder.
"W-w-warmth is imp-p-portant," Connor shivered, down to his loin cloth and wringing out his leggings. "We must h-h-hurry."
The trek up the hill was bitterly cold. The scarred man no longer had his shirt but had been oddly resistant of removing the pants or boots. This was no good. Ratonhnhaké:ton could see that his lips were blue and his skin paler than any white man he'd ever seen. The homestead was finally ahead, and Ratonhnhaké:ton ran ahead to stoke the fire in the dining room.
"Connor, is everything settle..." Achilles stared at Ratonhnhaké:ton, face almost immobile beyond the slightest widening of the eyes. "Why are you naked." It was not a question.
"Wet clothes w-would have been more harmful," Connor replied, going to the fire in the dining room. He stoked it and added two more logs. "The man in the river will need the fire and to be dry if he is to live."
"You mean you're bringing another naked person into my home?"
There was a knock at the door.
Connor hurried to the door opening it. "Come, the fire is strong."
"Come on, you knob-end," the streaked bearded man said, following Ratonhnhaké:ton into the dining room. "Let's get those breeches off so you can warm yourself."
The scarred man spouted a series of stuttering curses.
The other man chuckled. "What this knob-end is trying to say is he's forever in your debt, sir."
The scarred man jerked as Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled off his boots. "Who you callin' a knob-end?"
"You. Because you are one."
"Argh!"
"Good," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, ignoring the building argument. "Less stuttering means improvement."
"I suppose I should get some of my towels and linens," Achilles mumbled. "Both of you should stay the night. I don't have any clothes to fit you, and it's getting late. Heading back in next to nothing as the temperature drops is asking for a frozen death."
"I will get the towels," Ratonhnhaké:ton offered, standing.
"Stay with them," Achilles said. "If these two start brawling in what's left of my house, you'll need to knock them both unconscious."
The two men suddenly seemed aware that they were guests, and immediately cut off the flow of angry words. Achilles smirked then started upstairs.
Connor leaned over, running his hands vigorously through his hair to shake out more water. "I will get dressed and be back shortly." He followed Achilles upstairs and went to his room, pulling out the clothes that Achilles had apparently ordered for him in Boston. The cotton shirt was soft, and the pants felt strange, stopping only at his knees. He would have preferred his deerskin leggings, but they were still damp. Once more properly dressed, he went back downstairs, barefoot, and picked up the pile of his clothes and brought them to the kitchen to lay out ahead in front of the fire. With guests, they would also need a larger meal. Perhaps now Achilles would uncover the long table in the dining room so that they might eat together.
Dinner proved awkward, as the scarred man, Terry, was wrapped in a sheet as his clothes dried by the fire in the study. The larger man with the gray streaking his beard was Godfrey, and took delight in poking Terry about his nakedness.
Both were, they claimed, good friends. Though how they could be good friends when they broke into either arguments or fights at the drop of a feather was beyond Ratonhnhaké:ton. They had been lumberjacks, people who cut down trees to be used for crafting. Originally, when they and emigrated from Scotland, they'd ended up settling north of Lake Champlain in a place called Quebec.
"So what brought you to my land?" Achilles asked, sipping his tea.
Both Godfrey and Terry froze. "Your land?"
"Yes. My land. This whole valley and surrounding parts."
"Er," Godfrey looked embarrassed, but Terry looked angry. Conner had come to expect that Terry's natural state was angry. "We thought you only had this hill with the manor."
Terry grumbled. "Can a coon even have land?"
"I do not understand," Conner interjected. "What do raccoons have to do with owning land?"
The table fell to silence.
Terry, still flustered for eating at the table in just a sheet, and now put off by having settled on land that didn't belong to him, growled. "Not a raccoon, boy, a coon! A spade! A nigger!"
"A spade? You mean a shovel?"
"No," Terry growled, his bad temper growing, "a slave."
Ratonhnhaké:ton stood with such force his chair pitched backwards, anger bubbling in his chest so high his jaw tightened to contain it. He opened his mouth, not knowing what he was going to say, not knowing how to even express what he was feeling, insult and rage crackling around him after all he had learned in Boston on how a black skinned person was treated. Achilles was his mentor, his teacher, and the one who would help Ratonhnhaké:ton save his people. He did not deserve-
A hand the color of fresh turned earth took Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand. "Sit down, Connor."
"But-!"
"Sit down."
Connor turned, grabbed his chair and slammed it back onto the floor upright before dropping into it with as much anger as he could.
"Er," Godfrey and Terry were both looking awkward and uncomfortable again.
With a heavy sigh, Achilles reached into his jacket and pulled out well-worn and creased papers. He lay them out on the table between the plates with delicate care. "My papers," he said tiredly, "proving I am a free man, and have never been enslaved. Also my title to my land."
Terry, face so red his scars seemed white, looked away and grunted, looking more and more embarrassed.
Godfrey looked it over, but shook his head. "Neither of us could read," he said softly. "Scribbles on a paper don't mean much out amongst the trees. But the seal looks official enough. We meant no harm."
"You never do," Achilles replied, carefully taking back his papers, folding them gently and neatly, before replacing them.
"Neither of us has ever seen... a freed man."
"I was never a slave," Achilles said. "I was born free and I will stay that way." He nodded to Connor. "This is my apprentice. He is, as you white people would call him, a savage."
"Savage?" Godfrey sputtered, "but he saved-"
"Exactly," Achilles interrupted. "You may not read or write, but words have meaning. You can understand that. So make sure you use your words accurately." The Old Man stood, his plate empty, and went to the kitchen to clean it before retiring to his room.
"Er, we seemed to have stepped in it," Godfrey said.
Connor took several breaths, trying to reach for stillness and peace. Achilles had handled himself with quiet dignity and grace, so Connor would do the same. He would. He would.
"Tough little coon, isn't he?" Terry commented.
He would until Terry opened his mouth. Connor stood, grabbed his unfinished plate, and headed upstairs before he did something stupid. Behind him, he could hear Godfrey punch Terry. "You idiot! Can't you see what you're doing to our hosts!"
The following day, Ratonhnhaké:ton greeted the dawn much more calmly than when he'd gone to bed the previous evening. He had deliberately avoided the lumberjacks with his temper so close to bursting, his jaw aching from trying to contain his rage. But time away had let him realize that the two Scotsmen didn't know any better. Where Godfrey seemed to have understood quickly that certain language was insulting, Terry had not. They spoke from ignorance and truly had not meant harm. If they learned, then they would no longer speak from ignorance. Just as Connor was learning the white man's way so that he did not speak wrongly, the Scotsmen had to learn so as not to speak wrongly.
With a deep breath, Conner slipped downstairs, wanting to get going on his run. When he came back the lumberjacks would be awake and he could then explain things. He pushed himself during the run. He had not slept well, realizing how badly he had acted in face of ignorance, when the Old Man had acted with dignity. Ratonhnhaké:ton wished to act like Achilles in the face of such ignorance. He could not let his anger and anxiety rule him. If he were to face down his father, he would need stillness. But stillness was so hard to achieve. So he pushed himself, running further and faster, as he could achieve that. On the way back, he did not walk, but instead jogged, intending to eventually run back and forth from his farthest points.
Entering the homestead, the manor, Connor was surprised to see Achilles sitting with Godfrey and Terry in the dining room once more, all of them chuckling. Terry's clothes had dried and he was finally dressed properly, and it appeared that his sour mood had evaporated with his embarrassment.
"Hello, young Connor," Godfrey stood in greeting as did Terry. "Will ye have breakfast with us?"
Not knowing what to make of the sight, Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced at Achilles. There was a brief nod, so Connor stepped into the dining room. "Yes," he said softly.
"I was just telling Godfrey and Terry here," Achilles said with his papery voice, "that since they have already settled onto my land, they can keep it."
"Very kind of him!" Terry said with a huge grin.
"They will owe me some money for not actually talking to me about using my land, but that will be paid with the lumber they produce."
"Oh?"
"Yes," Achilles nodded then gestured. "When we were in Boston, you couldn't get any lumber, right?"
"Yes," Connor said, eyes alight as he realized the possibility of trade. "The store owner said his usual supplier had disappeared."
"And we can provide lumber," Godfrey said with his own large smile. "We were just going over the details."
Godfrey and Terry left soon after, heading back to where they had been building their mill with large grins and already arguing about what their best cuts of lumber were so far, what had been seasoned properly, and when to have their families come down from Lake Champlain.
"I'll miss the peace and quiet, but we could certainly use the wood." Achilles sighed. "You'd best be going with them, Connor."
Connor blinked, surprised, and turned to Achilles. "Sorry?"
"You've shown you haven't learned anything of stillness or patience," Achilles said, good humor gone and once more the bitter Old Man he was. "Therefore, you'll learn it another way. I will not show you how to fight, hide, or anything else of that manner, until those two lumberjacks have a proper home, mill and all."
Connor's jaw dropped. "But that will take months!"
The Old Man continued, ignoring Connor's interruption. "Once you've learned how the home is built and all that's different from your longhouses, you can do the repairs around the manor. Spring is coming and with your bottomless belly, you'll plant and tend to the gardens, as well as clearing out some of the trees that are growing too close."
"But-"
"Our lessons on history and language and intellect will continue through the afternoon and evenings. Tomorrow, however, you'll accompany me instead of helping the lumberjacks."
All sorts of protests rose within Ratonhnhaké:ton, of how much experience his father had, so how was Ratonhnhaké:ton to catch up if he was about to lose months to doing... repairs? But he couldn't find the words, his jaw clenched to prevent an explosion as anxiety surged forth. His people couldn't afford to wait!
"Maybe after all this is over," the Old Man said, entering the homestead, "you'll understand something about patience."
Author's Notes: I'm beginning to realize that these chapters are so incredibly dense that if I want to talk about everything it would take, like an addition bunch of pages. Still I have to try, and the obvious place to start (maybe) is Haytham Kenway, though the majority of his notes will come in later chapters, take note that this is the first time Connor physically sees his father and he doesn't know what to do.
It's pointed out in game several times through implication or outright dialogue that Ratonhnhake:ton is naive. It's stated in game that Kanatahseton is very isolated, and it's not much of a logical leap to assume that they keep to the old traditions, even though the Haudenosaunee have been trading with settlers for quite a while now; and that the only white people they've seen is Charles Lee and the Templars on That Day. Unlike Ezio, who was seventeen and an emotionally healthy adult, Ratonhnhake:ton was a kid, not fully formed, and entire pieces of himself were frozen. More on that later, but the damage of the village raid is far reaching on his psyche and one of the ways he coped with the tragedy is to label all "bad guys" as demon Stone Coats. The game hints that Connor is a berserker, and while we don't really have the place or the time to get into it, we touch on it in small places like with the bandits in the previous chapter and, er, later installments. Here, however, Connor is his naive self. He is young and he is impressionable - Achilles understands that and acts accordingly, and is very picky about who his teachers are.
Enter Sam Adams. Historians are of two minds about him: he was either a radical from the very start, or he was a reformist first who became a radical as time progressed. We've obviously gone with the latter interpretations, simply because Connor has to LIKE him and it's easier if Sam started out as a good man first. Sam Adams is a politician, all the negative stereotypes included with that word. He is a showman, aware of his audience and how to feed it and willing to be underhanded to serve his agenda. None of these things are values Connor would share or even like, but the one redeeming thing about Sam Adams is that his overarching goal is virtuous: self governance. Were that today's politicians - underhanded or not - at least had noble goals.
And that's another thing. I don't know if readers have ever come across this, but it's not uncommon for fanfic writers to write a fic to serve as a mouthpiece for their agenda: bashing character X, discussing gay rights in a slash fic, etc. Imagine the temptation in writing a fanfic that takes place in the American Revolution and you're a set of twins that are very politically active. It was painfully tempting to go on long rants about our own political ideas using Sam Adams and all the others as mouthpieces, and we repeatedly curbed ourselves: we instead tried at every avenue to let the characters and their political views speak for themselves. Even the ones we inherently disagree with. It's worth mentioning.
Which leads us to Godfrey and Terry. The homestead characters are unique in that Connor deliberately picks very egalitarian people; a real life homestead of the time would not be nearly so respectful to Prudence and Warren, or Ellen of Myriam, so there's a little unreality in the historical context of Rockport. Having said that, we decided to poke at that perfection just a little bit, and it's not much of a stretch to think that Terry will speak without thinking, and not understand why he's being offensive. And he asked a legit question, too. Back in the day, African Americans were NOT allowed to own land of any kind. The weak logic (that we never got to explain) is based on one of the letter bottles from Black Flag where the Sage landed at Davenport and found a family with a servant, if we recall correctly. The family, when they died, left the land to the servant but just never told the authorities that the servant was black, i.e. Achilles Davenport. Since Rogue came out this no longer works, but we don't discuss it regardless. Even we have limits on how close to history we can get.
As for the Boston Massacre itself, our only regret is there was no way to reasonably get Connor to hear the names of all the players, but we played it to history as near as we could. Also, Charles Lee was still in Europe at the time, there was no way here was there. And Haytham... well. To be continued.
Next chapter: building houses. Building homestead. Building Connor.